


Ruined

by MadamRoyale



Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M, Slash, Swimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamRoyale/pseuds/MadamRoyale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan's bedroom is perfect. Then Michael happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruined

**Author's Note:**

> So, I based this little ficlet on my life. I'm extremely picky on how my bed must be for me to sleep. I'm also slightly Narcoleptic and have the ability to pretty much sleep anywhere at any time. So, it's this odd dichotomy I live with. I did read an interview where Ryan said he needed it to be rather cold for him to sleep. Hence, why I came up with this.

Ryan is incredibly particular about where he sleeps. It's the last remaining particle of Northeast fastidiousness present in his body. The mattress must be soft but have the right kind of firmness, equally portioned. A separate layer of form padding is kept in place by a fitted sheet. Oh the sheets, only 300 count, Egyptian cotton will do. He prefers sheets in solid, dark colors - lots of black, navy blue, and dark green. Ryan's penchant for colors that drag queens would find appealing end with his sheet purchasing habits. While on a normal schedule, he changes his sheets every two weeks, washing them in luke-warm water with Woolite. No top sheet either. Ryan loathes top sheets. They honestly serve no purpose other than to get tangled around every limb. 

The comforter: black, down, and ridiculously expensive. He had it custom made, demanding only the best materials be used. They were and the bill reflected it. But Ryan was used to treating himself to the luxuries life had to offer. He worked hard and, in turn, could spend his endorsement cash on anything he Goddamn wanted. In this case, it was a black, nay, permanent midnight colored comforter. To keep out the blazing, Florida sun, Ryan had black-out shades installed, which could be drawn by a click of a remote control. The same control also set the temperature, another delightful quirk of his. Before going to bed, he would change the bedroom climate to mimic the Arctic Circle. Ryan couldn't sleep in any form of heat, at all. 

Up until recently, all of these individual components - the sheets, mattress, perpetual darkness - added up to comfort beyond measure. Ryan used to think, as his blanket cocooned around him, if Heaven exists, it would be this. Him laying in this bed, in absolute darkness, blisteringly cold air, enveloped in thick cotton. That was all before though. Then some fucking asshole with a lisp showed up one day. The complete audacity of it all! Ryan's life didn't need pretend arrogance to cover up still healing wounds. Nor did it need goal sheets, pissing contests with coaches, or Sundays brimming with Ravens football and micro-brewed beer. Of all the things it really didn't need was 6 feet and 4 inches of Michael Fred Phelps destroying his bed. Michael was fabulous at two things in life: swimming and complaining.

_It's too cold_

Aren't you from Baltimore? Get a blanket, fuck face.

_Turn on a light, I can't see my hand in front of my own fucking face_

The monsters won't get you, Mike.

_This mattress is too soft_

Sleep on the floor, Goldie Locks. I'm tired.

Michael ruined Ryan's bed. His daily vacation has been cancelled, there's more room at the Inn. Fuck Michael and his fucking, well, everything. He just had to barge, unexpected and uninvited, into Ryan's bedroom and leave traces of his presence. All of Ryan's sheets smelled like Michael. His expensive-as-fuck comforter? If the large chocolate stain (Michael eats in bed. One night, he was working on his second bowl of Death by Chocolate ice cream when something spooked Carter, who jumped on the bed and knocked the bowl out of Michael's clumsy hands. Ryan wanted to stab Michael in the face) is any indication, it has Michael's stamp. The form mattress pad is now laying in Ryan's hallway closet, sad and alone. Dolphin boy couldn't take the softness. 

But what really has Ryan seething is the fact that he's laying in the middle of his ruined bed and all he can think about is Michael. Michael, who's half way around the motherfucking world in China, golfing. Golf! The sport of rich, white men who are obsessed with all things plaid. Besides devastating the delicate eco-system of the bed, Michael also devastated Ryan on what can soothe him to sleep. He grew accustomed to freakishly long arms wrapped around his waist and soft snoring in his ears. Ryan missed waking up to a crooked smile and lips traveling down his neck. He missed Michael and all of his ridiculousness. He picked up his cell phone.

"Hey. Are you alright? It's gotta be past Midnight over there."

"I hate you."

"Okay. Why?"

"You're in China, you're playing golf, you ruined my comforter..."

"Dude, enough with the comforter. I told you I'd buy you a new one."

"How bout this. Get back in the pool and we'll call it even."

"Not happening, bro. I like golf and I'm not staring at a black line for the next four years."

"Loser."

"Douchebag."

"Come home. My destroyed bed misses you."

"Just the bed?"

Ryan smiles into the phone. Michael is such a life-ruining son of a bitch.


End file.
